


tattoos on the ether

by xxcaribbean



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, California, Happy Ending, Leaving Home, M/M, Post-Canon, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-08-20 22:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16564172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxcaribbean/pseuds/xxcaribbean
Summary: thewelcome to californiasign had been just as pale green as the one wishing them well when they’d crossed the indiana state line. turns out, the color of the ocean is just as blue as any book, any description, and any film had made it out to be.





	1. chisel to the paper

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this fic comes from _born again_ by tyler childers

++

Steve looks up at a brightly lit pink neon sign and thinks _what the fuck have I gotten myself into_.

He knows, of course, exactly what the fuck he’s gotten himself into and wonders when he traded any form of rational he’d managed to maintain in that stupid brain of his for ideas of grandeur and open roads. Steve’s travelled a few times in his life, mainly visiting what little family he has out of state, but diving head first into the unknown was a plan he sure as shit hadn’t thought through.

Excluding the Upside Down, of course.

Not like he has time to ponder the possibility of _that_ mistake when his next thought bubbles up without warning, toeing the line of desperate and annoyance when Steve feels the growl of his stomach. He doesn’t think he craves the salty bite of another greasy burger; in actuality, the notion makes him want to throw up, but it’s all he’s got, and his body needs sustenance, and diner number seven doesn’t look as bad as it sounds.

That’s what he tries telling himself ever since he left Hawkins, passing through the Midwest on a one-way ticket to hell because he realized, quite quickly, just how similar these parts of the country are akin to the standard textbook definition: boring with a side of corn fields and cows. Steve could complain, knows that every bone in his body is screaming that if he doesn’t _move_ , they’ll twitch until numbness takes over. It’s the last stop for miles if the crumbled-up map near his feet is worth its salt, and Steve doesn’t think he can go another few hours without anything solid in his stomach. The junk food he’d purchased over the course of the journey has accumulated as a stock-pile of goodies in the backseat of the car. There’s still plenty of it for consumption, but Steve’s sweet tooth isn’t opulent and very much like a diner burger, the thought of eating another Twinkie makes his tongue dry, throat constricting.

The fact that his blood is not a solid stream of white sugar is a miracle in and of itself, really.

“So, are you paying, moneybags?”

Steve breathes deeply and refuses to look at the driver of the car--the car he chose to sit his ass in and _leave_ his home for because he really is a fucking moron who thought that maybe an adventure had its merits. Turns out, all it’s left him with is sore muscles and little patience because sometimes Billy doesn’t know when to keep his fucking mouth shut.

Rolling his eyes, Steve slides his fingers over the latch on the door, waiting. “How long are you going to be mad at me for?”

In a quick reply, Billy shrugs. Steve sees it out of the corner of his eye, still refuses to look at Billy and the temper he’s settled in for over a day. “Dunno,” he finishes, leather jacket creeping past his neck as he stares Steve down with a petulant expression behind the reflection of his glasses. Steve doesn’t need to see Billy’s eyes to know that he’s unhappy with their affair, and Steve isn’t entirely happy to say that it’s all his fault.

But it is, sort of.

“You didn’t plan on telling me about the _couple grand_ you stashed away,” he says, refuses to watch Billy pull his shades down the bridge of his nose, looking over the lining while blinking directly at Steve like he’s boring into his soul. He’s settled deep into his seat, knees stretched wide as if there’s any room in the car for such a position, but he waits, expectantly, for Steve’s amends with a particularly good explanation, one he’s definitely _not_ going to get right now when he’s being stubborn, “so, I’m thinkin’ I’ve got a little while longer keeping you on your toes.”

Sometimes, _sometimes_ Steve wonders why the fuck he bothered, why the absolute fuck he went along with Billy’s plan to get the fuck out of Hawkins, why he _chose_ Billy to spend his time with--to sleep with, for god’s sake--because this is an unruly amount of absurdity. Steve knows Billy’s tendency to stew on his emotions until he no longer finds them valuable, and this, Steve thinks, needs nipping in the bud before they end up hurtling towards no return. “You’re so fucking ornery,” he says, the crook of his brow a statement of clarity--Billy’s not the only one unimpressed.

Their emotions, rising high like the tide, are mainly due to circumstances and cramped spaces, the car occupied by two persons for an extended period of time without reprieve from each other. It’s been a good lesson for Steve, if anything, that as much as he loves Billy, he definitely needs his space, space in which he hasn’t had for about a solid week since they started their journey with nothing but a few duffle bags and the clothes on their back.

Also, the stash of money Steve had hidden in his, but that’s beside the point.

“I really can’t believe I put up with you.”

Billy snorts, but a wolfish grin splits his face into childish pride. He slides the glasses right back onto his nose before straightening in his seat, and just like Steve, he curls his fingers around the door handle, not waiting for a prompt to crack it wide open so the heat of summer quickly fills the car. “Looks like someone’s picked up a dictionary lately.”

Steve feels it, the way his nostrils flare, the turn of his lips as they settle into a deep frown. He’s an idiot; he knows this, but the matter isn’t meant to be brought in between an argument. As best as he can, Steve ignores the comment and the curl of hurt in his chest, lips thinning as he shakes off the bullshit with a simple, “Go fuck yourself,” as he opens the car door. Long-limbed and lanky, Steve doesn’t exert himself as he peels himself out of the car, turning quickly to duck down and smile sarcastically at Billy who looks more than a little annoyed. “You can starve.”

The slam the door makes is satisfying, only an added bonus to his pent-up frustrations. Steve knows they won’t stay mad at each other for long, and he also knows that really, he’s in the wrong for what he’d done--mainly for what he _didn’t_ do, but he thought it the best decision at the time, made it last minute and stressed himself out to the point of no return.

Lying to his partner had never been his modus operandi, but some decisions needed figuring out before they were exposed to the light, and unfortunately for Steve’s, his timing had run out long before he’d been ready. As much as he’s at fault, however, he also knows that Billy is, too. For not letting him explain, for shutting off his emotions until the only thing he could say were one word replies that left Steve drained, completely ready for sleep to take him. He’s glad, if anything, that they’re speaking to one another, although it’s with passive aggressive intensity. But somewhere deep inside, Steve also feels Billy’s lack of presence, that solid weight he’s grown accustomed to now hollow from the distance between them.

Steve is utterly _fucked_.

The gravel under his feet gives off a satisfying crunch every time he steps across the rocks. Steve approaches the diner, already smelling grease and salt and hopes that maybe a salad might be an option on the menu, if only because his organs are begging. Behind him, Steve hears Billy fumbling behind him, curses spilling from his lips as he grabs his keys and slams the door shut. He catches up to Steve easily without losing breath, and the sunglasses are gone, eyes narrowed in the light of the setting sun. “I didn’t mean that,” he says lowly, but Steve pays him no mind as he opens the diner’s door and walks inside.

As expected, Billy follows him to a booth like they’ve done since the start of their journey. If it weren’t for the deep shades of red all along the walls and booths, Steve might’ve guessed they’d been here before, same diner, same small town in the middle of nowhere. But this isn’t full of pastel colors, and the building is practically empty save for a booth in the very back filled with older women; the shuffling of bodies behind the counter feel like busy little ants, hoping for the day to be over.

“Yes, you did,” Steve says a few minutes later, refuses to let Billy off the hook for his insult, and fortunately, he has the decency to look embarrassed for the comment. Not that Steve even minds much anymore, accepted the fact that maybe there were some things that weren’t his forte and that yes, Billy was definitely much better at stuff than him, but it didn’t stop the pang of regret for not being what he should’ve been from the beginning.

Just like Billy has his own regrets for not being what he should’ve been either.

Steve really hates that they’re two peas in a pod, doesn’t understand why they lucked out with underhanded disciplinary figures rather than parents who should’ve-

“I didn’t,” Billy insists, cuts Steve away from the trill of thoughts he doesn’t need right now, hates that Billy’s words even affected him like they did. He sits directly across from Steve, but he doesn’t miss that look in Billy’s eye, the one that showcases his true intentions if he were only allowed that in public.

Steve bristles and tells himself that as soon as he eats and they leave, Billy will be his again.

Still, Steve’s slightly apathetic, but it’s at a lot of things and not just towards Billy. He thought-- well, he didn’t exactly know what he thought, but he hadn’t expected their road trip to last this long, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected to get into any arguments with Billy either. In fact, he hadn’t planned on them playing forerunner to the second half of summer, but to be fair, Steve _hadn’t_ planned on doing anything with his time to begin with, not with the looming notion that he’d have to make a choice about his future and soon because his father wasn’t the kind to give him an extension between choosing a college that would take him or finding a position within his father’s company. A simple nine-to-five job wasn’t so bad, Steve knew; it was respectable, and the benefits were good as got, but neither option appealed to the likes of Steve who didn’t know enough about the world or _himself_ to make that kind of permanent decision.

At least, not as appealing nor as permanent as Billy’s offer had been when he’d asked Steve if he’d join him.

“You say what you mean,” he says, and it’s a quality that Steve, in any other circumstance, respects because Billy’s brash, and sometimes he doesn’t think before speaking, but at least he has the room to speak from his heart while learning to tame the bite of anger that’d held him hostage for so long. “And I appreciate that,” and he flicks his gaze to the other side of the building, over Billy’s shoulder where he spots a waitress on shift smacking gum, pulling out two menus that will surely end up at their table, “but you know why I did it, and more importantly, _why_ I was waiting to tell you.”

Billy doesn’t look hurt, not anymore, but he does look a cross between wanting to be pissed and calm understanding. “So, you _were_ going to tell me, then?” he asks resolutely, the vulnerability creeping into the tone of his voice.

It makes Steve’s gaze flicker back to Billy’s, the boy slouched in his seat very much like he was in the car, with one arm across the back of the booth, brow pinched like he’s gauging whether Steve’s fucking with him or not. The confusion itself is adorable, but Steve keeps that to himself, resolves that if he hadn’t known who Billy was, this would certainly be a sight to behold and how it’s about to become one as soon as he hears the clacking of shoes approaching.

Steve knows the setting is a disaster in the making, bites his tongue at the notion of jealously playing into the fine strings they’ve already pulled. Billy’s never been one to hide his shame, least of all when he gets what he wants with a thinly-veiled smirk, leaving Steve’s jaw clenched and mildly resentful in which Billy’s motions roll over from vulnerable to _smooth_.

Steve’s never held an ounce of it in his life, _Kings Steve_ moniker be damned.

“Anything to drink?” the waitress asks as she finally appears. She looks bored, absolutely dull until she eyes Billy, and Steve rolls his eyes the moment the tension dissipates into something too charged for his liking.

“I’ll ha-”

Steve kicks Billy’s ankle, effectively shutting him up as he politely addresses the woman. “We’ll have water. Thanks.”

She looks between them, probably feels the awkward subtlety that makes itself known as neither Steve nor Billy add another word to the request. Luckily, and as Steve keeps smiling, she leaves the menus and trails off behind the counter, grabbing their drinks.

“Listen, I don’t know what the fuck crawled up your-”

“We’ve lived on caffeinated beverages for nearly a week now,” Steve insists, voice harsh against the backdrop of relative quiet. He’s not angry, per se, just annoyed about a lot of things, and one of them is the lack of sleep that pulls shades of purple and blue and _heavy_ under his eyes. He’s sure if he found a mirrored surface, he’d notice the discoloration tethering him to the discontent that suddenly hits him twice fold. He doesn’t want to be here, and he doesn’t feel like arguing anymore. What he wants is food and a place of rest that _isn’t_ a lowered seat in the car. “Do me a favor: humor me.”

Billy breathes deeply, agitation painted clearly across his brow, so different from the smile he’d given the woman who took only half their order. The cocky demeanor loses itself the longer they sit in silence, the longer the subject of their animosity remains unresolved. Billy turns his attention to the menu like he hasn’t seen the exact same offerings everywhere else, and suddenly, Steve feels bad, the curve of Billy’s shoulders falling as he keeps to himself. It’s so unlike him that Steve reaches out, hesitantly scanning their surroundings before brushing his pinky across the back of Billy’s hand. “I’m sorry.”

It’s weighted, that word. Not just for his behavior but for the incident at large. It makes Billy sigh, finger twitching underneath Steve’s touch. He doesn’t pull away nor swat at Steve like he’d once done back in Hawkins when Steve attempted affection under the harsh lights and scrutinizing townsfolk that would’ve surely called their bluff.

“For treating me like a child?” Billy proposes, but just like Steve, his tone is cracked with unrest.

With his free hand, Steve runs his fingers through his hair, attempting to pull the longer pieces away from his face. It hardly works, and he needs a trim, but that won’t happen ‘til they get where they’re going. So, the best thing he can do is let his hair do what it wants while he attempts to fix what he’s broken. The thought of them snipping at one another for another few days leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “For that and the other thing.”

Billy finally looks up at Steve through his lashes, fanned out and dark across the skin below his eyebrows. It startles Steve sometimes just how breathtakingly beautiful Billy is when he’s free of annoyance, of any lingering emotions that hardens his gaze, his body, and more importantly, his heart. Steve may not always recognize the plethora of emotions that cross Billy’s eyes while they stare at one another, but he does identify that susceptibility in them and thinks how lucky, _how lucky_ he is that Billy trusts him that deeply.

It’s not as if he doesn’t know he’s fucked up because Steve does, but it hits him again like freight train, and if he wants this fixed between them, it has to happen now. Not later, not tomorrow. _Now_. So, Steve pulls himself together, and he says, “I wasn’t trying to lie to you.” They may be on the cusp of adulthood, but neither of them are children, and if they’re going to make this work, then Steve has to get used to open and honesty as he’d begged Billy to be with him once before. “I knew you wouldn’t react,” he pauses, unsure of admitting what he really thinks; it’s not unlike Steve to have his own faults--he really is missing a screw or two--but under the concern of money, Billy’s never accepted the kindness when offered, “favorably.”

After the waver of confusion, Steve expects Billy to say something rigorous, always a smart mouth when he’s keyed up over whatever’s pissed him off. Instead, Steve glances down at their hands as Billy flips the script, releasing the menu and shifting so that Steve feels the brush of fingers against one of his knuckles. “You’re sure that’s it?”

A constricting chest is not what Steve had in mind in lieu of his many other emotions, but it seizes him anyway, that choked off feeling he gets when he wants to cry. Sometimes simple reassurances aren’t enough, but Steve hopes that maybe one day they’ll get there. “I didn’t take the money because I can’t live without it, Billy,” he says because that’s the truth. Sure, part of him knows he’ll feel stifled stress in a few months’ time when the money he’d procured from his father’s office, the green that’d ultimately landed in his duffle, runs dry. By then, it’ll be meager earnings from whatever source of income they procure as survival, but the notion hadn’t stopped Steve from saying _yes_ to Billy. It still doesn’t make him backpedal, eager to return to Hawkins as soon as the Camaro rolls towards the nearest bus stop.

Steve’s lived with money all his life, never had to want for naught, and the differences between him and Billy are as wide as the Grand Canyon, but Steve also knew just how easily he could, and did, give it up for something he knew was so much better. Billy hadn’t made him any promises, and Steve didn’t expect them. The road ahead had always been bumpy, but Steve knew he had the ability to make it a little less so. “I took it because I knew you didn’t have a plan. Not a full one anyway.”

Which is the truth of the matter. The thick bruises around Billy’s collar bones are proof enough of that; same as the deep cut across his shoulder, the desperation in his eyes when he’d knocked on Steve’s door at eleven in the morning with nothing more than his car and a packed bag. “My parents won’t miss it,” he continues, and that may or may not be the truth either. Steve’s sure they’ll notice, hopes they’ll find the note he left because at least he had the decency not to let them believe he’d disappeared without a trace.

But aside from that, they’ll think him ungrateful, at the very least, where he’ll call back home and talk to his mother, set the record straight that he’s doing what he should’ve done ages ago. His father will be angry; he’s sure of it, but his mother will forgive him and ask him to visit when he can. “I’d rather be prepared so we’re not sleeping in another shitty motel, or god forbid, your cramped car,” he says, and he swears he sees a grimace on Billy’s face, though brisk as it may be. “We’ll have enough for a place, a roof over our head until we figure out what to do.”

The clacking of heels follows Steve’s admission, giving him enough time to retract his hand, sitting back in his seat while Billy bites his lower lip in contemplation. Two glasses of water, filled to the brim with ice, are placed before them, and when the waitress asks if they’re ready to order, Steve gives her a gentle smile, lacking force and hostility he hadn’t really meant before. She seems to take it in kind, smiling back as she stuffs her hands into the pockets of her apron.

“Eggs and bacon,” Steve says, going on to add, “for the both of us. Thank you.”

And when she leaves, Steve trails his finger through the condensation melting off his glass, giving Billy time to rove through Steve’s words like he might find fault with them. Before, when he’d found the money, he’d hardly given Steve the chance to explain, nostrils flared and color filling his cheeks when he’d asked _what the fuck is this, Steve?_

“I wasn’t thinking when I told you I was leaving,” Billy eventually says, catching Steve’s attention. He’s not looking at him, though, as he confesses his errors, staring out of the window at the lull of the highway just off in the distance. There’s only a few cars that pass given they’re in the middle of practically nowhere, but some roll on by, eighteen wheelers on their heels. “But it was better than the alternative.”

The _alternative_ sends a shiver up Steve’s spine, knows for a fact that Billy has difficulty expressing the intricacies of his home life, or what it once was. Previously, an utterance made bold through liquid courage had been enough for the both of them, for Steve to understand the implications and that bruises in the shape of fingers aren’t just earned; they’re given out freely under every pretense imaginable. False ones included.

“I don’t fault you for that,” Steve says solemnly, hopes that Billy doesn’t regret the decision he’d made by asking Steve to come with him because he doesn’t regret following. Despite their cramped conditions, the long drives, and whatever station the car sparsely transmit through its radio, leaving Hawkins without looking back has provided Steve with a new sense of self, an undercurrent of freedom and excitement that his hometown had never given him before.

It’s like he can properly breathe for the first time, and Steve knows that Billy feels the same way, too.

“That’s what I do, Steve, what I’ve always done.” Billy shrugs, the click of his tongue on the heel of sarcasm, a retrospective look of near defeat as he forgoes their usual address for something more meaningful. Like Billy’s purposefully tapping into the ether of his heart, wants Steve to understand the desperation that sent him on a voyage back to the only place he could ever call home. “I _figure shit out_.”

It makes sense, the life of one Billy Hargrove akin to a tornado that stirs up as much trouble as it finds him. Steve can’t imagine the lack of stability, of having to navigate the floorboards and delicacies of words. But Steve also understands Billy’s point, that having resorted to a weighted lightness has only left him in a peculiar spot, the drive amid instinct and survival. No plans had been made with a knock against wood, and somewhere, hope always existed because Billy’s always been savvy on his own.

On his own. By himself.

Steve sucks in a breath, sharp and meant to draw Billy back to him, and it works. Billy’s blue, _blue_ eyes, illuminated by the sun through the window, rest upon Steve’s in a heartbeat. Briefly, he wonders what Billy sees, how Steve looks in day old clothes, hair free of any product aside from water and the small bottles of shampoo and conditioner they’re gifted every night. It hardly matters, though, Steve leaving behind someone he used to be, someone he used to know, and surely, the same can be said for Billy.

“Not anymore,” Steve says, resilient in nature as he pushes the point that _loneliness will haunt no further_. The apologies, and whatever else he’d planned on saying, drift into the air like floating feathers, catching Billy by surprise and belatedly, with understanding.

It takes a moment, but only that, for Billy’s resolve--the one he’d always had buried beneath as a contingency--to smother itself into fragmented pieces. Steve watches as it cracks and bleeds, the fine lines between Billy’s brow, and the ones near the corner of his mouth, smooth away. 

For the first time, Steve thinks this is truly a new beginning.

It takes the serving of their food for the spell to break, but even then, Steve feels whatever unspoken conclusion they’ve come to just underneath his skin, buzzing with delight and warmth.

And it’s not until they’ve cleaned their plates, Steve pulling out a few bills to pay for their meal, that Billy eyes him, the check, and the moment the waitress carries their spread away.

“Not anymore,” he repeats quietly, and this time, Steve knows Billy believes him.

++


	2. runnin’ high and low

++

Between Indiana and California, there are uncertainties.

They pass over Steve every so often when the roads are long and the nights longer, when Billy’s eyes blink too quickly, and Steve’s on the verge of sleep, too.

For most of the ride, Steve thinks of anything but the destination, a holding out of hope that the finish line will be prepared by the time they arrive. Which, of course, will never happen because the moment Billy left that big ole state for small town Indiana, so did everyone else with it--the life and the people, the weather, and the security.

And Steve doesn’t think about the water or the sand or where they’ll stay. It’s gas stations and small towns just like Hawkins on the way there; too early to think about next steps with Billy behind the wheel of his baby, the Camaro, rough and growling as they pass tractors and cows in large, green fields of what will eventually become produce. 

The scenery is beautiful, and sometimes Steve says as much even if Billy’s only reply is a curt nod; it’s better than nothing, fills the void with more nothingness than the conversations they should be having, like the bruises around Billy’s neck that are slowly beginning to heal, gradually turning into ugly shades of yellow and green.

Which isn’t to say that Steve ever has doubts–just worries, as anyone rightfully should, but it’s a habit they’ve not yet broken, pointedly made by the fast pace of a gunned car, Billy a devil in disguise as he dances through town to town, from state to state.

“You’re staring,” Billy says at some point, voice on the outskirts of revealing just how tired he is. They’ve had plenty of pit stops, another fast approaching, with trashy bathrooms and edible _things_ that could hardly be counted as proper dietary sustenance. The motels were even worse, and Steve does his best not to grimace at the thought of finding another for the night; a bed with proper sheets and a headboard sounds splendid over too thin walls that reveal the realities of life far outside his own.

Steve shutters under the knowledge of what he’s traded, the relief evident when the morning comes, finding comfort in the car with Billy in the same clothes he slept in and hunger calling their names.

“’m not,” he mumbles, turning his gaze back onto the open road. The map sits delicately between the two of them, folded and used in a thousand different ways. Steve’s surprised there’s not a gaping hole in the middle of it with as many times as they’ve gotten themselves lost–a wrong turn, a change of roads that differ from the interstate lines and backroads from a map not yet updated. “I’m just exhausted.”

Steve notices Billy glance over, incredulity replacing determination, like he’s willing the earth to swallow them whole. He’s no longer tense like he had been the other day, the structure of his shoulders unwinding as the miles climb between their former home and their hopeful destination. Part of his answer is a lie, and Billy knows it too, but it’s easier this way--to brush things under the rug and let the silence speak for itself. Their conversations have carried over into this phase, where words aren’t enough, and Steve wonders when they’ve crossed that point where their eyes and their touches have become the clandestine center of communication.

“We’ll be there before long,” Billy says, adjusting his grip on the wheel. As the days passed and the weather shifted from icy cold to significantly more tolerable--still cold but less so--the white of Billy’s knuckles slowly settled into yellow undertones and pink-tinged flesh.

It’s a sign, if anything else, that Hawkins and its history were no longer permeating coiled muscles, that the remains of that small town weren’t permanently glued to Billy or Steve in a way they thought they couldn’t ever shake off. Steve doesn’t know for sure if that had ever been one of Billy’s fears--as if he’d admit to having any to begin with--but deep down, he’s sure that Billy felt like maybe the rot that had uprooted his life would forever be tattooed on every inch of skin, on every memory and thought that made him human.

Without realizing it, Steve blinks and draws his hand away from where it’d crossed the threshold of their seats, reaching Billy’s shoulder, focused on the bruising and the tinge of red that lies beneath. Billy hadn’t said a word, still doesn’t when Steve’s fingers curl into the palm of his hand. “They’re looking better,” he says as if Billy hadn’t glanced into a mirror since the incident, as if he hadn’t felt pain lighting every nerve on fire every time he’d so much as produced an inkling of emotion.

Billy’s tongue darts out, quickly licking his lips as if he’s lapping at lingering blood. “They feel it.”

Which makes Steve’s chest warm, exhaling on a hum of approval because Billy in pain is one of many of his least favorite experiences. Flashes of previous incidents blur together, makes them indistinguishable in trying to determine which was the worst, which ones left Billy angry or crying. Steve doesn’t like to think about those moments, quite surprised that tears hadn’t fallen when Billy told him he was leaving for good.

He’d been distant that night, akin to numb, and Steve grits his teeth in order to ignore the anger he feels on Billy’s behalf. “Will you tell me what happened?” he asks, as if that’ll do him any good with the prickling of a bite behind his teeth, the urge to curse and spit _that man’s_ name from his mouth, damning him to hell.

Billy must sense it, or maybe he’s unnerved by the question because the “What?” he asks--based in confusion, morphing into flashy hostility, eyes eventually landing back on the road ahead. “You can’t tell he tried to beat my face in?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Steve says darkly, comfortable now with expressing distaste for the mere thought of being passive when he feels things. He no longer worries whether his emotions will spike Billy’s; they’ve learned not to feed into each other so much, contentious and unproductive, knowing that each of them need and should afford the opportunity to work through them without a bottle holding them on the shore of suppression. 

“I don’t-” Billy starts, but he huffs before finishing, the subject delicate, and no matter how much or how little Billy’s revealed to Steve, it doesn’t mean it gets any easier. Billy’s everything–thoughts, emotions, actions–have always been tumultuous, a scattered litany of byproducts from both the abuse and his attempt to make sense of survival. A learned habit never dies so easily, not for Billy, no matter how much he tries to extricate it. “I don’t really know,” he finishes, and Steve thinks he might be downplaying it just because he can, the excuse of humiliation and defeat living between the lines. “It’s never the same-- never a pattern. He did it, and that’s all there is to it.”

Defensive, which Steve respects, but a small part of him aches and hopes that maybe there will come a time when Billy’s walls fall further, land on Steve with the full weight of trust he could ever hope to muster, that regardless of the vulnerability at large, Steve will look at Billy no differently. “You’re right,” Steve agrees, the subsiding anger due in part to the small space of the car and the matter of Steve never forcing Billy’s hand before he’s ready. “But one day, I hope you’ll tell me. After all, you wanted me here, didn’t you? Didn’t come here for the short haul.”

It’s as best as he’s going to get, Steve thinks, to admitting what he’s trying to say to Billy without dislodging a demand that would raise both of their hackles. Steve resolves to a measured tone with finality and no arguments, but lacking any real threat behind it because that’s the last thing they need, especially after his miscalculation with the money. All he really wants is for Billy to know that he’s on his side, through thick and thin–-hell, they’re in the middle of nowhere _together_ , Steve agreeing to it willingly–-and that from here on out, Billy has someone if he needs it.

Billy has Steve, and that may not be much by way of family and home, but nonetheless, Steve wants him to _know_.

 _Not anymore_ , he thinks, the echo of their voices in the diner forceful and loud.

The air never reaches a level of tension, even with Steve’s admission. Instead, Billy’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, a good indication that he’s holding in a particularly peculiar comment, self-restraint a learning process.

“Don’t sweat it, Hargrove,” Steve ends up saying. He uncurls his fist from his side, reaching forward to brush the underside of Billy’s jaw, carefully snagging a ringlet of hair that hangs just past his ear. With two fingers, Steve tugs gently and smiles. “I love you, too.”

++


	3. red camaro

++

The _Welcome to California_ sign had been as pale green as the one wishing them well when they’d crossed the Indiana state line. Turns out, the color of the ocean is just as blue as any book, any description, and any film had made it out to be.

Steve may or may not be in awe.

“Is it usually this peaceful?” Steve asks amidst the water bouncing off of his ankles. It’s cold, but Steve can’t find it in himself to move away from each wave that creeps across the sand. It’s jarring, really, refreshing in a way he didn’t know he needed. Sucking in a deep breath of air, Steve practically tastes the salt on his tongue, the gentle wind carrying the distinct smell of the coast across his skin.

Billy stands right beside him, jeans rolled up mid-calf, observing the line in the distance where the water meets the skyline. “No,” he shakes his head, refusing to tear his eyes away from a picture Steve swears only Billy can see, particularly a moment in time he can’t draw out no matter how much he wishes he could. “Fall is almost here, so people are scattered.”

Steve hears a few of them in the distance along with the birds that fly overhead, and he thinks, if only for a minute, that he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The two of them have come all this way only to land on the steps of what could very well be the edge of the world, tucked away in a town Steve’s never been to, in a state he’s only heard about, and miles away from the only home he’s ever known.

The difference is that he doesn’t miss Hawkins, only the people in it, and when he thinks back to what he really had there in comparison to where he is, he feels that right now, just maybe, he has more than he’ll ever need.

Which is a thought too sudden, born out of ignorance and lack of age, he guesses, because this is only the tip of the iceberg and no amount of alluring views can mask the road they have ahead of them. Steve knows that Billy’s familiar with this beach, with the town he cruised right into, pointing and grinning at shops and buildings he’d always known until he’d been uprooted and plunked into a whole other world.

It’s satisfying, to say the least, to watch Billy enjoy himself, the lack of fear or worry in his eyes a reminder of why they’re here to begin with.

Steve stands in front of something so grand, confronts it without a care and doesn’t want to be the one to face the truth of the matter at hand. So, he says, “You know I didn’t ask a lot of questions,” thinking it’s better to rip the band aid off now rather than later when they’re stuck in another shitty motel room, four walls closing them off from the world. They’d been boxed in, and it feels like this public forum was always meant to be their stage. “But we have to start thinking ahead now.”

The arch in Billy’s brow is what Steve sees first before the inevitable head turn. Billy’s eyes burn a bright blue, staring at Steve without a crease on his face, and while that’s comforting in all the ways it should be, it also makes Steve nervous as hell. He’s spent his entire life in a house too big for _just_ himself, wishing he could share it with people that cared enough to greet him at breakfast and eat dinner with at night unlike the absence he’d always been met with instead. He tries not to dwell on the loneliness that sits in his stomach, could’ve had things so much worse than his parents buying their guilt away. Steve knows all of this, and yet at the ready, he was willing to give that up for a boy and his car and the promise that maybe they could do things differently–-be better, do better in all the ways that people around them had failed before them.

“We’ll find somewhere,” Billy tells him with no uncertainty in mind, and it’s difficult to tell whether he’s truly convinced of this or if he’s lying and masking it because he needs to believe it too.

Either way, Steve doesn’t buy into the doubt he knows he could possess. It won’t do them any good when they’ve come this far, when they’re on the cusp of a life much bigger than themselves. “Do you think this is a good place?” and he’s not entirely sure what he means by it, whether it’s safe for them, whether they’ll be happy here, whether they can make this town work for the two of them. Steve’s learned to adapt in the past year, with terrifying creatures and impossible things suddenly possible; it’d been difficult not to, not with the shadows and distant growls that’ve kept him on edge during particularly bad nightmares.

Billy shrugs, which isn’t the most reassuring gesture, but he supposes it’s his way of showing Steve that he’s just as clueless as he is, that leaving Hawkins and most importantly, his father, was the most decisive aspect in his getaway plan. And surely, Steve can admit that out of the two of them, it’d be Billy to get shit done, to figure things out as a tactic of survival.

Sometimes Steve wonders just how powerful he’d actually be if he’d ever lent Billy the nail bat. 

Probably not the best of images, but it certainly would’ve been a sight to behold. 

“It was when I was here,” Billy admits when another wave swallows their feet. The water is still cold, and Steve ignores the way it settles into his bones the way winter had in Hawkins. It’s brief, though, a chilling grasp let go in only a matter of seconds. “I’d like to think it could be again.” 

Steve could ask another question, one specifically tailored to where they are and the nostalgia that’s crept its way into Billy’s words. For the sake of them both, he doesn’t, however, because it isn’t the time; a spot of contention between the two of them isn’t the most ideal situation, and Steve’s not willingly risking a closed-off conversation about Billy’s mother unless he’s absolutely ready to go there. 

But it’s there nonetheless, in the way Billy stands besides Steve, how he breathes in deeply like it might be his last. Steve doesn’t know what it is exactly, can’t pinpoint the exact precipice they’re standing on, but Steve thinks that maybe it just might be _home_.

++


End file.
